The Safety of Objects: Stories (16 page)

The room smells like urine. The wet paper towels are on the floor. Jane doesn’t come back to clean up the pee. I do it and then sit back down on the sofa.

I am staring through the dark at an old wooden tribal mask made with hemp hair and a feather and laced with tribal beads. I’m staring at this unfamiliar face that Nate brought back from a school trip to South Africa, and the mask seems to be staring back as though inhabited, wanting to say something—taunting me with its silence.

I hate this living room. I hate this house. I want to go home.

I text Claire and explain what’s happened. She writes back, “I took advantage of your being gone and am still at the office; it sounds like you should stay the night in case things deteriorate further.”

I dutifully sleep on the sofa with a small, smelly nap blanket covering my shoulders. Tessie, the dog, joins me, warming my feet.

*  *  *

In the morning there are hurried phone calls and hushed conversations; a copy of the accident report crawls out of the fax machine. We will take George to the hospital, and they will look for something, some invisible explanation that will relieve him of responsibility.

“Am I going deaf or what the fuck is going on around here?” George wants to know.

“George,” Jane says clearly. “We have to go to the hospital. Pack your bag.”

And he does.

I drive them. He sits next to me, wearing well-worn corduroy pants, a flannel shirt he’s had for fifteen years. He’s unevenly shaved.

I drive self-consciously, worried that his complacent mood might shift, that he might flash back, erupt, and try to grab the wheel. The seat belts are good; they discourage sudden movements.

“Simple Simon met a pieman, going to the fair. Said Simple Simon to the pieman, ‘Let me taste your ware,’” George intones. “Simple Simon went a-fishing for to catch a whale; all the water he had got was in his mother’s pail. Watch out,” he says to me, “or you’ll get what you asked for.”

*  *  *

In the emergency room, Jane goes to the counter with their insurance information and the police report and explains that her husband was involved in a fatal car accident the evening before and appeared disoriented at the scene.

“That’s not what happened,” George bellows. “The fucking SUV was like a big white cloud in front of me; I couldn’t see over it, couldn’t see around it, I couldn’t help but punch through it like a cheap piece of aluminum, like a fat fucking pillow. The air bag punched me back, slammed me, knocked the wind right outta me, and when I finally got out I saw people in the other car, pushed together like lasagna. The boy in the back didn’t stop crying. I wanted to punch him, but his mother was looking at me, her eyes popping out of her head.”

As George is talking, two large men make their way toward him from the rear. He doesn’t see it coming. They grab him. He’s strong. He fights back.

The next time we see George he’s in a cubicle in the back of the emergency room, arms and legs tied to a gurney.

“Do you know why you’re here?” a doctor asks him.

“I’ve got bad aim,” George says.

“Can you remember what happened?”

“It’s more like I’ll never forget. I left work at about six-thirty, drove toward home, decided to stop for a bite, which is not something I normally do, but I was tired, I can admit that. I didn’t see her. As soon as I realized I’d hit something, I stopped. I stayed with her. I held on to her. She was slipping out from under herself, fluid was leaking out, like a broken engine. I felt sick. And I hated her. I hated her for how stunned she looked, how gray, the pool forming beneath her—I didn’t even know where exactly it was coming from. It started to rain. There were people with blankets—where did the blankets come from? I heard sirens. People in cars drove around us; I saw them staring.”

“What is he talking about?” I ask, wondering whether I’m confused or George is entirely disoriented. “That’s not what happened, that’s not this accident; perhaps it’s another one, but it’s not his.”

“George,” Jane says. “I read the police report—that’s not what happened. Are you thinking of something else? Something you dreamed or something you saw on television?”

George offers no clarification.

“Any history of mental or neurological symptoms?” the doctor asks. We all shake our heads. “What line of work are you in?”

“Law,” George says. “I studied law.”

“Why don’t you leave him with us for now. We’ll order some tests,” the doctor says, “and then we’ll talk further.”

Again, I stay the night at George and Jane’s house.

*  *  *

The next morning, on our way to see him, I wonder aloud, “Is this the right place for him, a psych ward?”

“It’s the suburbs,” she says. “How dangerous could a suburban psych ward be?”

He is alone in his room.

“Good morning,” Jane says.

“Is it? I wouldn’t know.”

“Did you have your breakfast?” she asks, seeing the tray in front of him.

“It’s dog food,” he says, “Take it home to Tessie.”

“Your breath stinks—did you brush your teeth?” I ask.

“Don’t they do it for you?” George replies. “I’ve never been in a mental hospital before.”

“It’s not a mental hospital,” Jane says. “You just happen to be in the mental unit.”

“I can’t go into the bathroom,” he says. “I can’t look at myself in the mirror—I can’t.” He begins to sound hysterical.

“Do you need me to help you? I can help you clean up,” Jane says, opening the toilet kit they have left for him.

“Don’t make her do this,” I say. “You’re not an infant—snap out of it—stop acting like a zombie.”

He begins to cry. I am surprised at myself for the tone I’m taking with him. I walk out of the room. As I leave, Jane is running water on a washcloth.

*  *  *

In the evening, after work, Claire comes to the hospital, bringing Chinese food from the city for the four of us. For someone of Chinese descent, Claire is surprisingly indiscriminate about Chinese food—as far as she’s concerned, it’s all the same, variations on a theme. We reheat it in the microwave marked “
FOR PATIENT USE
—
NO MEDICAL PRODUCTS
.” We clean our hands with the bottles of foaming cleanser that are on every wall of every room. I worry about putting anything down, touching any surfaces—suddenly I fear I could be eating deadly germs. I look into the Chinese food and see a worm, which I discreetly show Claire.

“It’s not a worm, it’s a grain of rice.”

“It’s larva,” I whisper.

“You’re nuts.” She uses her fork to extract the grain of rice.

“Does rice have eyes?” I ask.

“It’s pepper,” she says, wiping the eyes off.

“Where did the food come from?” I ask.

“The place on Third Avenue that you used to like,” she says.

“The one the health department closed?” I ask with a measure of alarm.

“You have a big trip coming up,” Jane says, distracting us.

“I’m going to China for a few days,” Claire says.

“No one goes to China for ‘a couple of days,’” George growls.

Claire does.

Refusing to eat, George will allow himself only to suck the hot mustard directly from the plastic packets—self-punishment. No one stops him. “More for me,” I am tempted to say, but don’t.

“When are you leaving?” Jane asks.

“Tomorrow.”

I pass another packet of mustard to George.

Later, in private, Claire asks me if George and Jane have a gun. “If not, they should get one,” she says.

“What are you saying? They should get a gun? That’s how you end up dead; you get a gun and then someone shoots you.”

“I’m just saying that I wouldn’t be surprised if Jane comes home one night and the family of the people George hurt are waiting for her. He destroyed their lives, and they’re going to want something back. Stay with her, don’t leave her alone; Jane is vulnerable,” Claire says. “Imagine if it were you; if you went nuts, wouldn’t you want someone to stay with me and keep an eye on the house?”

“We live in an apartment with a doorman. If I went crazy, you’d be fine.”

“That’s true. If anything happened to you, I’d be perfectly okay, but Jane is not me. She needs someone. Also, you should visit the surviving boy. The lawyer is going to tell you not to, but do it anyway—George and Jane need to know what they’re dealing with. There is a reason I run Asia,” Claire says. “I’m always thinking.” She taps the side of her head. Think. Think. Think.

*  *  *

And so the next day I visit the boy, more out of a kind of familial guilt and less out of the need to calculate the impossible cost of making the boy “whole.“ I stop at the gift shop, where the selection is limited to brightly colored carnations, religious necklaces, and candy. I pick a box of chocolates and powder-blue carnations. The boy is in the same hospital as George, in the pediatric unit—two floors higher. He is sitting up in bed, eating ice cream, his eyes fixed on the television—
SpongeBob SquarePants
. He is about nine years old, chunky, a single eyebrow arches across his face in the shape of the letter
M
. His right eye is blackened, and a large patch on the side of his head has been shaved, and there’s a meaty purple line of stitches exposed to the air. I give the gifts to the woman sitting with the boy, who tells me that he is doing as well as can be expected, there is always someone with him, a relative or one of the nurses.

“How much does he remember?” I ask.

“All of it,” the woman says. “Are you from the insurance company?”

I nod—is a nod the same as a lie?

“Do you have everything you need?” I ask the boy.

He doesn’t answer.

“I’ll come back again in a few days,” I say, anxious to leave. “If you think of anything, you’ll let me know.”

*  *  *

It’s funny how quickly something becomes a routine, a way of doing business. I stay with Jane, and it is as though we are playing house. That night I take out the trash and lock the door; she makes a snack and asks if I’ll come upstairs. We watch a little television and read. I read whatever it was that George had been reading, his newspapers and magazines,
Media Age
,
Variety
, the
Economist
, and a big history of Thomas Jefferson that sits beside the bed.

The accident happens and then it happens. It doesn’t happen the night of the accident or the night we all visit. It happens the night after that, the night after Claire tells me not to leave Jane alone, the night after Claire leaves for China. Claire goes on her trip, George goes downhill, and then it happens. It’s the thing that was never supposed to happen.

The evening visit to the hospital goes badly. For reasons that are not clear, George is locked in a padded room, his arms bound to his body. Jane and I take turns peering through the small window. He looks miserable. Jane asks to go in and see him, the nurse cautions her against it, but she insists. Jane goes to him, calls his name. George looks up at her; she sweeps his hair out of his face, wipes his furrowed brow; and he turns on her, pins her with his body and bites her again and again, her face, her neck, her hands, breaking the skin in several places. The aides rush in and pull him off her. Jane is taken downstairs and treated in the emergency room; her wounds are cleaned and dressed, and she’s given some kind of a shot, like a rabies vaccination.

We go back to the house. Jane heats hundred-calorie brownies in the microwave, I scoop no-fat ice cream onto them, she sprays them with zero-calorie whipped cream, and I cheer them further with chocolate sprinkles. We snack in silence. I take out the trash and change out of my clothes, the same clothes I’ve been wearing for days, and put on a pair of his pajamas.

I hug her. I want to be comforting. I am in his pajamas, she is still dressed. I don’t think anything will happen. “I apologize,” I say, without knowing what I am saying. And then she is against me, she puts her hands on the sides of her skirt and slides it down. She pulls me toward her.

There was a time when I almost told Claire about Thanksgiving—in fact I tried to tell her, one night after sex, when I was feeling close to her. As I started to tell the story, Claire sat up straight and pulled the sheet tight against her body, and I backed away from what I was about to say. I changed it. I left out the kiss and just mentioned something about Jane brushing against me.

“You were in her way and she was trying to get past you and not get to you,” Claire said.

I didn’t mention that I felt the head of my cock pressing against my sister-in-law’s hips, her thighs pressed together.

“Only you would think she was making a pass,” Claire said, disgusted.

“Only me,” I repeated. “Only me.”

Jane pulls me to her; her hips are narrow. My hand slides down into her panties. It is a new jungle. She sighs. The feel of her, this private softness, is incredible. And I’m thinking, this is not really happening—is it?

Her mouth is on me; she reaches for something, some kind of cream, it starts cold and then goes warm. She strokes me, looking me in the eye. And then again her mouth is on me and there is no way to say no. She pulls my pajamas out from under, is quickly upon me, riding me. I explode.

Drenched in her scent, but too shaken to shower or to fall asleep in their bed, I wait until she is asleep and then go downstairs, to the kitchen, and wash myself with dish soap. I am in my brother’s kitchen at three in the morning, soaping my cock at his sink, drying myself with a towel that says
HOME SWEET HOME
. It happens again in the morning, when she finds me on the sofa, and then again in the afternoon, after we visit George. “What’s the story with your hand?” George asks Jane the next day, noticing her bandages. He’s back in his room, with no memory of the night before.

Jane starts to cry.

“You look like hell,” he says. “Get some rest.”

“It’s been a difficult time,” I say.

That evening we open a bottle of wine and do it again, more slowly, deliberately, intentionally.

*  *  *

The hospital lets him out, or more likely he simply decides to leave. Inexplicably, he is able to walk out unnoticed in the middle of the night. He comes home in a taxi, using money that he’s found at the bottom of his pocket. He can’t find his keys so he rings the bell and the dog barks.